


crave

by freefallvertigo



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternative Title: Battle of the Switches, Blow Jobs, Choking, Established Relationship, F/F, Fingering, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, bio-engineered strap-on, thirteen goes from needy bottom to dom top so fast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:54:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28535478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freefallvertigo/pseuds/freefallvertigo
Summary: The Doctor braved another glance down. The lone red light in the closet illuminated the growing tent in her trousers, which was approximately three millimetres and two thirds from digging right into Yaz’s back pocket.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 9
Kudos: 122





	crave

**Author's Note:**

> so after that special and all the unresolved thasmin angst we were left with i thought i'd write some totally mindless smut to take my mind off the hurt x
> 
> also quick heads up: the smut does become quite rough in places (although it's 100% consensual) so please make sure you check out the tags before reading! 
> 
> hope everyone's staying safe and healthy. enjoy x

The Doctor was really hoping Yaz wouldn’t notice. 

They had far more pressing matters at hand, after all. The spacecraft they were on had been commandeered by six-limbed pirates, the TARDIS had been taken hostage, and the pair of them had been forced to tactically retreat into a cosy storage closet in an effort to avoid certain death. Once their path to the control room was clear, the Doctor was positive she’d be able to do something brilliant with her fast hands and supersonic brains and save the day like always. She didn’t quite know, just yet, what that brilliant thing was supposed to be—she just knew that it would be. Brilliant. Because all her plans were brilliant. 

Except for her plan to hide in that stupid closet. 

Granted, she thought it’d be roomier than it was. Bigger on the inside, maybe. No such luck. Yaz ended up pinned between the Doctor and the door, back to the Doctor’s chest and ear to the metal. She could probably hear barked orders. Blitzing footsteps. The occasional loud crash. 

All the Doctor could hear were her own frantic heartbeats. Blood rushing to her ears—and somewhere else. 

_Not now. Please, not now._

They were just so close, and Yaz’s hair smelled like macadamia shampoo and her skin smelled like the sugar-sweet body scrub she loved and her clothes smelled like smoke from that fire they’d had to put out (which the Doctor may or may not have started), and it was a lot. _She_ was a lot. Gorgeous and brave and unwavering and moulded right against the Doctor. 

Of course the Doctor’s mind was going to drift just a little astray. She bit her bottom lip and recalled a situation visually similar, in a lot of ways, to this one. A dark room. Yaz pressed to a door. The Doctor’s lips pressed to her neck. Her hand down Yaz’s trousers. 

And then another. The Doctor tied to a glowing amber column. Yaz on her knees. Starbursts blinding the Doctor’s vision.

_Too much, Brain._

_Wasn’t me._

_Brain 2?_

_I hate it when you call me Brain 2._

_Well, if you wouldn’t get me into so much trouble!_

_Speaking of trouble…_

The Doctor looked down. 

_Oh, fuck._

She tried to grant Yaz a little more space but, when she shifted backwards, she collided with a metal rack of shelves and earned a scolding glare from Yaz for the racket. 

_All right, then. Can’t move backwards. Can’t move to the left, or to the right, or up. Wait—oh, no. Can’t go up. I could go down, but I don’t s’pose bein’ on my knees would do me much good at the moment. She can’t feel it, though, can she? Nah, it’s not that bad. We’re hardly touchin’. Maybe if I just think of somethin’ else—_

“Doctor, I can practically hear you thinkin’ from here,” whispered Yaz. “You got a plan yet?”

“Oh. Um. Workin’ on it, Yaz. Bear with me, I’ll have us out of here in a jiffy. Back in time for Corrie and a cuppa, how’s that sound?”

“More of an _Eastenders_ person, myself.”

“Didn’t realise we could afford to be picky right now.”

“Just sayin’.” 

Yaz shrugged and the Doctor really wished she’d just stay still. Every time she moved, their bodies brushed together. Chest to back. Knee to thigh. Pelvis to posterior. Such tantalising friction. 

The Doctor braved another glance down. The lone red light in the closet illuminated the growing tent in her trousers, which was approximately three millimetres and two thirds from digging right into Yaz’s back pocket. In an effort to maintain that crucial distance, the Doctor pressed her palms to the metal door at either side of Yaz’s head and pushed her hips as far back as she could. 

“Doin’ okay back there?” asked Yaz.

“Me? Splendid. Superb. Sound as a pound! Why d’you ask?”

Yaz frowned at the Doctor’s hands; at her splayed fingers and the veins bulging from her pale skin in an exhibit of all her tension. She turned her head and suddenly she and the Doctor were nose to nose. The Doctor couldn’t stop her eyes from wandering to the lustre in Yaz’s glossy lips. 

“You look dead anxious all of a sudden,” observed Yaz. 

The Doctor swallowed dryly. “Do I?”

“Yeah, you do.”

Then Yaz did the one thing the Doctor had silently prayed and begged and willed her not to do. She turned around. 

“Yaz, wait—“

Too little too late. The moment Yaz turned her body, her hip brushed against the Doctor’s crotch and she froze. Their gazes locked and an impossible silence fell like a thick fog over the closet. They stared at one another in the low light. The Doctor held her breath. 

“Doctor…” Yaz began. There was a curious, nigh on amused, edge to her tone. “What’ve you got in your pockets?”

The Doctor cleared her throat. “Ah, y’know. Usual stuff. My sonic. Psychic paper. Few odd biscuits. Bouncy ball. Pack of mints. D’you fancy a mint, Yaz? They’re dead nice. Proper minty.” The Doctor knew she was nervous-rambling, and still she couldn’t stop herself. “I’ve also some mints that don’t taste like mint. They taste like cocoa, so I guess they’re just called cocoas. Or, if not, they defo should be. Be kinda peculiar to call ‘em mints still, wouldn’t it? Why don’t I check the packet?”

The Doctor reached for her coat pocket but Yaz stilled her hand when she wrapped her own around her wrist. The Doctor didn’t look at her hand, because that would mean looking down; if she looked down, Yaz might look down, and that was a dangerous game. 

“You’re wearin’ somethin’,” stated Yaz. 

“Obviously I’m wearin’ somethin’, Yaz. It wouldn’t be especially ideal to blunder around in the nude all the time. As we’ve learned, I’m quite fond of the pockets that come with clothes. Lots of room for mints. Very handy.”

Speaking of hands, Yaz’s was moving. She let go of the Doctor’s wrist and held her by her waist. The Doctor’s jaw trembled. 

“What is it?” Yaz wondered. 

She still hadn’t looked down. Why hadn’t she looked down? Maybe she hadn’t even noticed and was talking about something else entirely. There were infinite “its” in the universe; she could be referring to any number of them. 

“What’s what?” The Doctor’s voice came out far less steady than she’d intended, not at all helped by the fact that Yaz rocked her hips forwards in an experimental fashion at the exact same moment as the Doctor opened her mouth to speak. 

“Don’t be cagey, babe,” Yaz murmured, leaning in to utter the words right into the Doctor’s pinkening ear. “You know exactly what I’m on about.”

The Doctor bit the inside of her cheek and looked to the ceiling for salvation. Unless salvation looked like a dark mould stain, she was all out of luck. Gods, but this was embarrassing. She was never going to live it down. 

“Answer me,” purred Yaz. She stroked the Doctor’s ribs with her thumbs and grinded, just a little, against the Doctor—whose breathing caught tellingly. She wanted more, more, more. It was everything she could do not to grind right back. But that would be mortifying. That would be weird. That would feel _so_ good. 

“I—it’s not—I mean, it’s not like you’re thinkin’,” stammered the Doctor. 

“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

Yaz was absolutely correct. The Doctor studied Yaz’s dark eyes but refused to plunge too deep into them for fear of being unable to swim her way back to the surface. She thought she could make out a shimmer of glee—a growing ripple of entertainment—but Yaz’s intentions were submerged way in the depths of the black and the Doctor was scared to coax them any closer with the smell of fresh blood. It may already have been too late. 

“It’s not exactly the right time for it, Doctor,” teased Yaz. Her pelvis was pressed right up to the Doctor’s bulge now, as if testing her restraint, but the Doctor remained completely still. It wasn’t easy. 

“It’s not like that,” the Doctor repeated. “I were just wearin’ it soft. Y’know, a comfort thing, ‘cause I’m just so used to havin’ one. But this one, um… it acts like a real one.”

“Does it feel like a real one?”

The Doctor nodded. Yaz’s face was right beside her own and their chests were pressed flush; it would be so easy to chase a little of that friction she so sorely needed. She liked to think she was above humping Yaz’s leg like a dog, but this new appendage she was strapped into was brand new and a far cry more sensitive than she’d anticipated. She hadn’t known it would react so strongly. Alas, all it had taken was thirty seconds of being trapped in a tight space with Yaz for it to rise like a morning sun. While the Doctor typically considered herself a morning person, there was a time and a place. This wasn’t it (but she was struggling to care). 

Yaz let out a breath of laughter against the Doctor’s peachy cheek. “We’re in here hiding from bloodthirsty space pirates and you’re thinkin’ with your dick?”

“I can’t help it, Yaz,” whined the Doctor. “I think I’ve set the psychic sensitivity too high. I just… I just need…” 

“What?” simpered Yaz. She jerked her hips and the Doctor gasped. “Is this what you need?”

“Yaz…”

Dropping her forehead to Yaz’s shoulder, the Doctor rutted against Yaz’s thigh and groaned, dignity be damned. She curled her fingers into the leather of her jacket and held her against the door while she grinded against her leg, growing harder with every jerk of her hips until the tent in her culottes reached its impressive peak. 

“Are you seriously humping my leg right now?” Yaz scoffed. “Pretty sure I just heard a gun go off somewhere.” 

And yet she clung to the Doctor’s coat just as fiercely as the Doctor clung to her. 

“Yeah, we’ll deal with it. Promise,” the Doctor mumbled against Yaz’s shoulder. “Just, y’know, one thing at a time. This is kinda distractin’, to be honest. And when I say, ‘this’, I do of course mean you.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault you got a ragin’ hard on?”

“Your fault for lookin’ so good all the time.”

“What a charmer.”

“I do try.” 

At last, Yaz looked down. The Doctor’s bulge was pressed right up against her leg; she was dragging the very tip of it up and down her thigh in a desperate bid for gratification. Somewhere, a mild explosion rattled the bones of the ship. The Doctor hardly even registered it. An issue to be addressed, sure, but she had her priorities. 

The Doctor slid her hands around the back of Yaz’s jeans and gripped her closer by her backside, pressing her open mouth to Yaz’s warm neck and rumbling against it. 

Thudding her head softly against the door, Yaz carded her fingers through the Doctor’s hair and sighed when her wet tongue danced across the lobe of her ear. 

“You’re unbelievable,” Yaz murmured. Her back slammed into the metal alongside another violent twitch of the Doctor’s pelvis. The Doctor felt, rather than heard, Yaz’s laughter. “This doin’ it for you, is it?”

“I’m sorry, Yaz,” winced the Doctor, but her fingertips dug deeper into the denim of Yaz’s jeans and she grinded faster and harder against her. It felt good, but it didn’t quite feel like enough. She was throbbing so hard it bordered on painful, and release didn’t seem any closer now than it had five minutes prior. She made a frustrated sound against Yaz’s throat. 

“Doctor?”

“It’s not…I’m tryin’, I really am, but…”

“Okay, that’s enough.” Yaz grabbed the Doctor’s hips to still them and the Doctor exerted every ounce of her will on suppressing a whine. 

She opened her mouth to beg for mercy or forgiveness, but the only sound that escaped her lips was a yelp of surprise when Yaz swiftly spun her around until _she_ was the one with her back to the door.

“Take off your coat,” Yaz instructed. 

“What?” 

Yaz tilted her head. Her patience diminished before the Doctor’s eyes so she rushed to oblige her before it wore out completely, awkwardly struggling out of her coat in the limited space at her disposal. Yaz stole it from her hands before she could do anything with it. 

“Braces,” said Yaz. 

The Doctor peeled her braces off her shoulders in record time. 

“Good girl.”

Cheeks flushing, the Doctor watched curiously on whilst Yaz neatly folded up her coat and dropped it onto the floor at their feet. 

“Hold onto somethin’, will you? This won’t take long.”

“What won’t take—“

Yaz dropped to her knees. The Doctor lost her breath. 

“Oh. You’re gonna—oh. Really? Right now? Right here?”

“You’ve not left me with much choice, babe,” supposed Yaz, unfastening the Doctor’s trousers as she spoke. “Kinda need you to bring your A-game, which we both know you’re incapable of doin’ when you get like this. I’d rather your libido didn’t get us killed, don’t you agree?”

The Doctor nodded her head eagerly. “Absolutely. Right, you are. Safety first. It’s only right.”

Beyond the door, a series of heavy footsteps marched past and Yaz held a finger to her lips to shush the Doctor. Mouth clamped shut, the Doctor held onto the shelves at either side of her head whilst Yaz reached inside her trousers. Her hand closed around the Doctor’s shaft. She gritted her teeth when Yaz pulled it free. 

And there it was, pointing right at Yaz’s mouth like it was a compass and Yaz was true north. 

Yaz raised a brow at it and the Doctor suddenly felt very exposed, and was reminded how obscenely humiliating this all was. Feared and revered across the universe, older than she or anyone could hazard; survivor or war and genocide and prison and grief; oncoming storm; Time Lord victorious—and she couldn’t even keep her dick down. No wonder Yaz was clearly enjoying this so much. Frustratingly, the smug twitch of her lips only made the Doctor need her more. 

“Looks pretty real,” remarked Yaz. She delicately squeezed the bright red tip, prompting the Doctor to swear under her breath. “Didn’t fancy a smaller one, no?”

“I—I just—I worked out an average size based on my past regenerations. It’s not like I—“

“Quiet,” interrupted Yaz. “Try not to make a sound, okay?”

The Doctor shut her mouth. 

It fell open again when Yaz ran her tongue slowly along the length of her and then swirled it around the head. 

White-knuckling the shelves, the Doctor bit down on her lip with trembling brows and stammering hearts. Every flick and twirl of Yaz’s wonderful tongue was at once divine and deranging; she licked with purpose but no semblance of urgency. It almost seemed like she was toying with the Doctor. Holding back just because she knew the Doctor was struggling. 

“Please,” gasped the Doctor.

Yaz pulled away. “What did I say?”

“But—bloodthirsty pirates? Imminent danger? Now’s not really the time to take things slow, Yaz.”

“Well, in that case, why don’t you just get yourself off?”

“No, no, wait!” hissed the Doctor, putting her hands on Yaz’s shoulders when she began to lift from the ground. “I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet. Do your thing, I’m not complainin’. At all. Seriously. Have I mentioned how much I love you? ‘Cause I do. Loads and loads and loads.”

“Yeah, you love me when I’m on my knees,” quipped Yaz. 

“I love you all the time.”

Yaz held the Doctor’s earnest eyes and softened just a touch. “You’re lucky I love you, too.”

“I know. Luckiest person in the whole _—fuck_.” 

The Doctor’s head lolled back once Yaz closed her mouth around her cock again. She slid her plump lips gradually along the length of the Doctor until her shaft disappeared entirely inside Yaz’s mouth and the tip prodded against her throat. Forgetting to be quiet, the Doctor made a restrained, throaty sound. The metal slats of the shelves were slicing into her palms—any harder and they might draw blood—but the Doctor couldn’t have cared any less.

What a glorious picture Yaz made: kneeling before her with her whole dick in her lovely mouth and a wicked glint in her eyes. 

And then she started to thrust her head. 

Fist flying to her mouth, the Doctor bit down on her knuckles and watched Yaz take her all the way back time after time after time. Yaz hummed while she worked, and slipped a hand under the Doctor’s shirt just to knead a breast over her sports bra. Every time the head of the Doctor’s shaft collided with Yaz’s throat, the Doctor’s breathing turned shallower, her quiet moans became breathier; the pressure inside of her mounted unbearably. 

Whenever Yaz drew back, she followed the motion with a steady hand wrapped around the Doctor and rolled her tongue expertly around the sensitive, artificial tissue just below the tip. 

“Oh, Yaz…” moaned the Doctor. 

The entire ship shook and Yaz gripped the Doctor’s ribs and pinned her flat to the door to keep them both steady, unrelenting in her faultless oral performance. She hollowed out her cheeks; the suction made the Doctor whimper, twitch, spasm. 

She and Yaz had done this on a handful of occasions before and, each time, Yaz was inhumanly proficient. She gave head like her life depended on it—in this instance, that wasn’t entirely inaccurate. How was the Doctor supposed to string together a solid plan when all she could think about was Yaz’s lips wrapped around her cock? It hardly seemed plausible. 

Lifting the rock-hard appendage, Yaz took both balls into her mouth and hummed. The reverberations created a staggering sensation which made the Doctor rock greedily against Yaz, who somehow managed to smirk even now. 

She loved to reduce the Doctor this—to a needy, wanting, aching mess. The Doctor was only too happy to please. 

“Oh, you’re bloody incredible,” grunted the Doctor when Yaz resumed her avid thrusts. 

Encroaching upon release, the Doctor subconsciously began to nudge her hips and drive her cock repeatedly into the hot, wet squeeze of Yaz’s throat. 

Rather than hold her down, Yaz responded in kind, sucking faster and with increased fervor. 

One of the Doctor’s hands found the back of Yaz’s head and rested there. She didn’t push Yaz, merely guided her gently enough that she wouldn’t feel as though she couldn’t pull away whenever she wanted. Fortunately for the Doctor, that seemed the last thing Yaz wanted to do. 

“Yaz— _gods_ , Yaz, I’m gonna… oh, keep goin’. _Don’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstop_.”

Yaz doubled down. She held the Doctor’s full length in her mouth and, the next time the Doctor thrusted her hips, Yaz spluttered around her. Startled, the Doctor was about to pull out and let her breathe, but then Yaz just kept going. She held onto the Doctor’s cock and engulfed her like it was nothing, like she wasn’t choking; like the spacecraft wasn’t rocking unsteadily around them with the force of another distant boom. 

In the end, the thing to push the Doctor over the edge was the way Yaz’s eyes found hers in the flickering red lights. Mouth full of the Doctor, she looked up and moaned, and that was enough. 

The buildup lasted only a few seconds. 

A tingle. 

A whole body shiver. 

A popping cork. 

Jerking forwards, the Doctor came with a staggered whimper and her eyes screwed shut. She gripped Yaz’s ponytail. Swore. Convulsed blindly against Yaz’s face. 

Yaz kept pumping her and pumping her for every last drop of warm, sticky come; it coated her lips and tongue, and she only swallowed it when the Doctor managed to peel open her foggy eyes in the wake of her receding euphoria. Yaz smacked her wet lips and goosebumps prickled every inch of the Doctor’s skin. She was bright red and speechless. Clumps of blonde hair stuck to the sweat on her face, which Yaz didn’t bother brushing away when she got to her feet and kissed her. 

It was a sloppy, passionate kiss—one the Doctor was still a little too dazed to reciprocate very well. When Yaz broke it off, both their lips were a little bit sticky. 

“Yasmin Khan,” mumbled the Doctor dreamily.

“Better?” Yaz asked.

“Better. So much better.” The Doctor afforded Yaz another fast kiss. For someone who usually ran cool, she still felt uncomfortably hot all over. She was certain Yaz would be able to feel it in her crimson cheeks and clammy hands. “Thanks, Yaz. You’re a star.”

Yaz tapped the Doctor’s cheek with her open palm. “You can thank me later, babe.”

“Oh, believe me, I intend to.” 

The moment she said so, the ship jolted violently and the ground beneath their feet listed. They careened into the shelves with an almighty crash. It was a moment before the ship righted itself again and they were able to disentangle from one another. 

“Maybe you should think about saving our lives first,” suggested Yaz, helping to peel the Doctor away from the shelves and rubbing her own temple where she’d smacked it. 

“Yes. Excellent point. Gold star for Yaz!” awarded the Doctor, fastening her trousers and reaching for her coat. 

“Thought you were doin’ points?”

“Ah, it doesn’t matter. You’ll be gettin’ a much better reward later.”

“Right. If we survive that long.”

“Have I ever let you down before?”

“Want me to answer that?”

“Best not.”

* * *

The Doctor’s plan, if she may say so herself, did turn out to be rather brilliant in the end. No loss of life, no great tragedy, and justice served to all deserving parties. 

When they returned to the TARDIS later, she was fizzing with adrenaline and pride. After piloting them to safety, the Doctor bound towards the kitchen with the sole intention of treating herself to a generous helping of well-deserved biscuits and a diabetic cup of tea. 

Whilst the kettle boiled, the Doctor hoisted herself up onto the island, swung her legs merrily, and tore open a fresh packet of custard creams. 

Yaz leaned against the counter opposite with her arms folded. 

“Biscuit?” the Doctor offered through a mouthful of crumbs, holding out the packet for Yaz. When Yaz shook her head, the Doctor shrugged and shoved another whole custard cream into her mouth. “Not to toot my own horn, but I reckon I were pretty ace out there today. How did you rate my speech? Bit too dramatic? I think I waved my arms around too much. Have to work on that. Smacked my hand off a pipe while I were yammerin’ on. Can you see a bruise?”

The Doctor lifted her hand. Peeling away from the counter, Yaz closed the distance between them. Rather than inspect the damage done to the Doctor’s knuckles, however, she stepped up between her legs and plucked the biscuits from her hands. There was something dangerous lurking in the murky waters of her eyes.

“Yaz?” The Doctor harshly swallowed her food without properly chewing. 

“You think you were ace all on your own, is that right?” challenged Yaz. She set down the custard creams and leaned against the island with her palms at either side of the Doctor’s thighs. “I seem to remember helpin’ you out quite a bit.”

Embarrassed, the Doctor dropped her eyes. “Yeah. Um, I’m really sorry about that. Won’t happen again. Cross my hearts.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed.”

“I—wait, you wouldn’t?”

“Well, it were kinda fun, weren’t it? Wonderin’ whether someone were gonna kick the door in before you got to come? Tryna be quiet? Goin’ back out there still tastin’ you on my tongue...” Yaz smoothed her thumb over the Doctor’s parted lips. “Did you know you taste like vanilla?”

The Doctor scratched the back of her neck with a bashful cringe. “There are eight hundred different flavours to choose from. Thought I’d stick with a classic. Is that odd?”

“Pretty odd.” Yaz exhaled a muted laugh through her nose. “But that’s just you, isn’t it?”

“You think I’m odd?”

“Definitely.”

“Oh…”

“That’s not a bad thing, babe.”

“Oh.”

“Do you know what the best part was?” asked Yaz. She swiped her thumb with a little too much force against the Doctor’s lips, manipulating them like clay, and the Doctor found herself opening her mouth to make it all the easier for her to do so.

“What was the best part?” the Doctor dared to inquire. 

“How little it took to work you up.”

Yaz’s face gleamed in the hazardous glimmer of roguish intent and the Doctor suddenly realised that Yaz had her intentionally trapped there; she was caught in the sights of a predator like a zebra on a wide open plain. It was exhilarating. 

“I mean,” Yaz went on, “just how responsive is this thing?”

“Uh, I couldn’t say, exactly.” The Doctor shifted awkwardly when Yaz’s pupils swept south towards her crotch. “I may need to adjust the settings. Tone it down a bit.”

“Just not right now.”

Licking her lips, Yaz caught the Doctor’s eye and leaned in close. The kettle screamed, the Doctor’s hearts pounded against her ribs like fists banging on the bars of a cage; Yaz didn’t kiss her. Her advance came to an abrupt halt the instant the Doctor moved her head forward. 

The Doctor pouted. “Yaz…”

“Doctor?” 

Yaz grazed her trimmed nails along the Doctor’s thighs. They looked one another in the mouth. Once again, the Doctor surged forwards. Once again, Yaz evaded her kiss.

The Doctor whined. “Don’t tease.”

“You love it when I tease.”

“I love the taste of you more.”

“Sure that’s not gonna be too much for you?” goaded Yaz with a pointed look between the Doctor’s legs. 

“I’m perfectly capable of handlin’ a kiss, thank you very much.”

Yaz hummed, deliberating, and nuzzled her nose alongside the Doctor’s. Their mouths were a hair’s breadth apart. The Doctor could feel Yaz’s breath tuck itself under her tongue. Seep through her skin. Soak into her bloodstream. Pump from her hearts. Yaz was the life beating inside her, the oxygen she depended on, and the Doctor wasn’t going to survive another second without a dose. 

She grabbed Yaz’s face and kissed her. If the way Yaz smiled against the Doctor’s mouth was anything to go by, she’d expected nothing less. 

Yielding to the Doctor’s desires, Yaz kissed the Doctor right back, eyelids fluttering closed and hands closing tighter around her legs. The Doctor’s position atop the island put her a full head above Yaz; apparently, Yaz didn’t like that. She dragged the Doctor from the counter by the backs of her knees. No sooner had she thudded to the floor than Yaz pressed into her with the full weight of her body. 

Brushing her tongue against the Doctor’s, Yaz locked her arms together behind her neck and deepened the kiss exponentially. 

Once upon a time, when she first kissed Yaz so many moons ago, the Doctor ended up convincing herself that Yaz’s saliva must have contained some kind of aphrodisiac. No chance in hell could something so chaste as a kiss leave her so worked up afterwards. A swab of DNA and six dozen tests later, the Doctor was forced to conclude that she’d been wrong. There was no aphrodisiac. No drug. No trick. 

It was just Yaz, whom she loved, and the way it felt to finally kiss her. 

A thousand kisses later and nothing had changed.

Presently, Yaz nibbled on the Doctor’s lower lip. She purred in response, slipping her hands beneath Yaz’s jacket and pulling her closer by her waist. There was no such thing as too close. Not when it was Yaz. Conversely, any distance between them—no matter how small or how great—was infinitely too far. Eternities inhabited every particle dividing their naked souls from one another, and the Doctor spent an untold amount of time plotting how best to eradicate every last one of them. 

“Doin’ pretty good so far,” Yaz uttered with a glance down. 

Cheat heaving, the Doctor frowned. “Didn’t realise this were a test.” 

“It wasn’t,” said Yaz, “but this is.”

Next thing, Yaz’s mouth was at the Doctor’s neck. She sucked zealously on the tender spot below her ear and the Doctor sighed her approval, clutching at Yaz’s jacket and tilting her head sideways to better expose her throat to her attack. 

Wolfish and unsparing, Yaz was on a clear mission to leave her mark. She bit down. The Doctor’s reflexive instinct was not to recoil, but to yank Yaz in aggressively, baring her teeth in a primal display of lust and hunger. She felt it simmering in her gut; singeing the frayed threads of self-restraint she was clinging to. 

Until now, the Doctor thought she’d been holding herself together fairly well.

That’s when Yaz whirled her around, yanked her head back by her hair, and zeroed in on the other side of her throat. The Doctor moaned, steadying herself against the counter when Yaz’s pelvis bucked into her backside. Her efforts proved futile. 

The next time Yaz canted into her, the Doctor’s elbows skidded across the granite countertop and she ended up bent over it. Yaz leaned into her. She kept the Doctor’s head pulled back and her throat vulnerable, and found a fresh patch of skin in the crook of the Doctor’s neck to claim as her own. 

Personally, the Doctor didn’t consider any of this a laughing matter. However, seconds later, Yaz started to snicker against her skin.

“Hi again, mate.”

After following Yaz’s line of sight, the Doctor felt heat and colour suffuse her face and the back of her neck. At some point, the tent in her trousers had been re-erected. She hadn’t even noticed. 

Yaz was infuriatingly haughty when she turned her face towards the Doctor and said, “Thought you could handle a kiss?” 

“Slightly more than a kiss, Yaz,” the Doctor huffed. 

“You don’t need to be embarrassed, babe. I think it’s kinda hot that my mouth gets you so worked up.” She blew a gentle stream of air against the Doctor’s ear and the Doctor squirmed against her. She didn’t have to look to know that Yaz would be grinning. “But what about my hands?”

“Your hands?”

“Mhm.” 

Yaz took half a step back and helped the Doctor upright and out of her coat. Once it was discarded, she pushed herself up against the Doctor’s back once more and placed her hands flat on her stomach, drumming a finger over her bellybutton. It was a quick rhythm. _Taptaptaptap. Taptaptaptap._ The Doctor’s hearts beat in sync. 

And then Yaz’s hands began to roam.

Untucking the Doctor’s shirts and pushing her braces down, Yaz slipped one of her hands beneath the front of the material and it glided across the Doctor’s abdomen. The Doctor presumed she was heading for her chest; instead, she simply scratched the Doctor’s stomach, up and down and up and down. It was strangely thrilling. 

So preoccupied with the hand under her shirt was she, the Doctor didn’t notice that the other one had moved until she felt it firmly squeeze her breast over her clothes. 

The Doctor’s pulse tripped over itself. 

Yaz was breathing heavily against her neck and every fine hair on her body stood to attention (her hair wasn’t the only thing). 

Save for their breaths, which were laboured not from exertion but arousal, the room was dead silent. It made the whole situation infinitely more intense, for in silence, there was nowhere to hide—the Doctor knew this better than most. 

The hand under the Doctor’s shirt weaselled under the band of her sports bra. The other one slid down the side of her body. She moved so, so slowly. 

Until she didn’t.

Yaz tweaked a stiff nipple between two fingers at the same time as she cupped the Doctor’s backside with a distinct shortage of clemency. The Doctor jumped; her back hit Yaz’s chest and Yaz chuckled, pinching her fingers again and causing the Doctor to suck in a lungful of air through clenched teeth. She wriggled against Yaz, which only made Yaz grope harder and twist sharper—a warning. 

_Be still._

Taking a shaky breath, the Doctor relaxed against Yaz as best she could. 

“There’s a good girl,” Yaz crooned. She kissed the Doctor’s cheek and the pressure against her nipple alleviated. “You’re doin’ well. I’m not quite finished with my hands, though.”

“But I need—“

“I know, babe. C’mere.” 

Leading the Doctor with her hands around her upper arms, Yaz guided her a step away from the island and turned them both around. The Doctor found herself face to face with her reflection in the chrome oven across the kitchen. Maintaining eye contact, Yaz slid her hands across the inside of the Doctor’s thighs. 

“Take it out,” she whispered. 

The Doctor’s eyes widened. “You—you want me to—“

“Yes. Now.”

Hands far less steady than she usually prided them on being, the Doctor unclasped her culottes and gingerly reached inside them. She didn’t want to rush, because she didn’t want Yaz to know just how desperate she was—but she _was_ desperate. She always was, where Yaz was involved. 

Never in all her lives had the Doctor known anything quite like Yaz’s touch. 

Both their eyes dropped when the Doctor’s shaft sprang free of her flyer. The Doctor figured, then, that trying to hide how desperate she was had probably been a pretty defunct task. 

“Doctor,” said Yaz.

“Yaz?” the Doctor croaked. 

Yaz lifted her palm to the Doctor’s face. “Spit.”

It was a good thing the Doctor was leaning against Yaz, because she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t then have fallen to the floor otherwise. 

Gently closing her fingers around Yaz’s wrist, the Doctor spat onto her waiting palm—surprised that she even had any saliva to offer with how dry her mouth suddenly felt. 

Chin resting on the Doctor’s shoulder, Yaz held her steady with one arm around her waist and then wrapped her spit-lubed hand around her cock. The Doctor blew out her cheeks. In their reflection, she watched Yaz slide her hand leisurely up and down the length of her and her jaw hung open. 

Yaz knew exactly all the right places to squeeze and tug and stroke. She knew exactly how to make the Doctor lose her mind. 

In no time, she’d worked up to a brisker pace which had the Doctor all but falling backwards into Yaz and trapping her against the island. If Yaz minded, she didn’t say—too busy watching the contortions of the Doctor’s face and listening to her soft moans. 

“Tight enough?” Yaz husked. 

“More,” begged the Doctor. 

Yaz spat onto her hand and resumed her work, this time with a firmer grip and longer strokes. The Doctor made a low, throaty sound. 

“Okay?” checked Yaz. 

By way of answer, the Doctor wordlessly reached for Yaz’s free hand and lifted it to her neck. Yaz arched a brow at her in their reflection, but the Doctor only nodded. They’d done it plenty before; she trusted her. 

So Yaz squeezed the Doctor’s throat. 

She squeezed the Doctor’s throat, and she squeezed the head of her cock, and she honest-to-god growled into the Doctor’s ear. The Doctor didn’t even think it was intentional. Sometimes, Yaz could get carried away when she took the Doctor like this, and the Doctor definitely wasn’t complaining. 

“God, you look so pretty right now,” Yaz said, hushed and depraved. Her lips brushed the Doctor’s cheek when she spoke—she was staring intently at her grimacing face. “A pretty wreck, Doctor. That’s what you are.”

A strangled cry burst forth from the Doctor’s burning lungs succeeding a significant increase in the pace and pressure of Yaz’s deft hand stretching out her cock. Yaz licked the side of the Doctor’s face. The Doctor writhed in Yaz’s hold. Both their boots scuffed the floor during the ensuing struggle to preserve balance. 

“Steady,” Yaz warned gruffly. 

She granted the Doctor’s throat a reprieve and the Doctor filled her lungs with air while she could, heaving deeply and resting her temple against Yaz’s cheek. Yaz kissed it delicately and waited for her to catch her breath—but she didn’t wait a second longer. The Doctor’s vision was partially obscured by a lock of matted hair when Yaz held out her palm expectantly. 

“Again,” she instructed.

Obedient, the Doctor spat into her hand. 

Yaz carried on. 

Whenever the Doctor would begin to feel lightheaded, Yaz would sense it, loosen her hold on her neck, and slow down the rhythm of her strokes until she’d recovered enough to take more. Then she’d dive right back in at the deep end. 

It was like constantly being driven towards an immense plunge and then yanked back by the collar at the very last second; like being on a rollercoaster that was all suspense and no fall. 

“Yaz…” quivered the Doctor. “I want—I want—“

“What do you want?”

“I want _you_.”

“You’ve got me.”

“More of you.”

Releasing her throat, Yaz turned the Doctor’s face towards her by her jaw and engaged her in a torrid kiss. The Doctor curled her fingers around the back of Yaz’s neck and held her close, whimpering her way through the noisy, wet kiss and eventually surrendering her ability to keep up. Instead, her open mouth hung against Yaz’s and they stared at one another through the dense haze of their miasmic arousal. 

The Doctor’s hips twitched. Yaz’s pupils flitted below the equator. Something in her expression shifted just enough for the Doctor to suspect that she was up to something; she had no idea what that was until a few seconds later. 

“Close?” asked Yaz.

“Close,” panted the Doctor. Cloud nine was within reach. She could all but smell its rain in the air. “So, so close.”

Yaz smiled. “Good.”

She let the Doctor go. 

“Wh—Yaz?”

Yaz carefully pushed the Doctor’s body off her, straightened up, and wiped her hand on her jeans. Dazed, bemused, and throbbing with insatiate need, the Doctor gaped at Yaz. And then at her crotch. And then back at Yaz. 

She spread her hands. “ _What_?” 

“Didn’t think you were gonna get off that easy for a second time today, did you?” Yaz folded her arms. “What, is that all you think I’m here for? To service you?”

Blinking rapidly, the Doctor was reeling from whiplash and scrambling to determine whether or not Yaz was serious. 

But then—an inch of rope.

One corner of Yaz’s mouth quirked upwards.

_Just a game,_ her knowing eyes twinkled. _Relax._

“Yasmin Khan,” sighed the Doctor, anxiety dissipating piecemeal but frustration increasing tenfold, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

Shrugging coolly, Yaz sauntered away from the island with her hands in her jacket pockets. “You said you wanted more of me, babe.” She stopped in front of the fridge; turned to the Doctor. “Well, here I am. What exactly are you gonna do about it?”

Magnets, postcards, and sticky notes all hailed to the ground when Yaz collided with the fridge amidst the ferocity of the Doctor’s kiss. In shock, Yaz’s hands flew out of her pockets and hovered in the air, so the Doctor grabbed hold of her wrists and pinned them above her head. Perhaps Yaz was in the mood for playing games, but the Doctor very much wasn’t. 

The Doctor drove her thigh up between Yaz’s legs; her kiss became a little bit teethy when she smirked at the way Yaz rutted against her. 

“Guess two can play at needy, eh?” sneered the Doctor. 

Yaz ground her jaw. “I’m not needy.”

“No? One way to find out.”

Keeping Yaz’s wrists clamped in the vice-grip of one hand, the Doctor used her other to pop open the top button of Yaz’s jeans and tug her zipper down. Yaz watched her flyer come undone with a slow lick of her lips. 

Clammy forehead glued to Yaz’s, the Doctor stared openly at her as she inched her hand beneath the waistband of her underwear. 

She ran her fingers through her.

They both sighed.

“Oh, look at that…” The Doctor withdrew her hand and held up two shiny, wet fingers. “Drippin’.” 

Yaz refused to look at the Doctor’s hand, jaw set and eyes on an indistinct spot to her right. She hated to be called out like that. 

The Doctor flashed a wonky grin. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, _babe_. Kinda turns me on that gettin’ me off works you up so much.” The Doctor rubbed up against Yaz so that the head of her shaft poked into her stomach. “But what about my hands?”

Before Yaz could react or respond, the Doctor dragged her away from the fridge, spun her around, and pushed her back up against it with her body—shielding her face from impact with a palm at her forehead. 

Cheek pressed to the cool metal, Yaz glowered at the Doctor over her shoulder. She clearly wasn’t happy about the role reversal. 

The Doctor, on the other hand, was living for it. 

“Well?” she prompted, sliding her arms under Yaz’s armpits and cupping her breasts in both hands. “Where do you want ‘em, Yaz? Here? I quite like ‘em here, to be honest.”

“You know exactly where I want ‘em, Doctor,” Yaz seethed. 

“I’m not a mind reader, Yaz,” sang the Doctor. “Well, I am, but…”

Skirting her hands up the front of Yaz’s top, the Doctor pushed her bra up and palmed her breasts. Her nipples were wondrously hard and begging for a little attention. The Doctor rolled them lazily between her fingers and delighted in the way Yaz braced her hands against the side of the fridge in anticipation of a harsher touch. 

Lips pressed against the shell of Yaz’s ear, the Doctor mumbled, “Ask me for it.”

“Get lost.”

The Doctor twisted both of Yaz’s nipples and Yaz grunted, fingers curling and teeth on show. The Doctor did it again, clockwise and anti-clockwise; every time she did, Yaz wriggled with the sting and the Doctor’s cock rubbed against her ass. 

Yaz knocked her forehead against the fridge door and groaned. “Babe, come on.”

“You only have to ask, Yaz. It’s not hard.” The Doctor kissed along the slope of Yaz’s jaw, but her tenderness was more of a mockery than anything—especially given that she was still roughly groping her breasts. 

“Just…” Yaz trailed off and swore under her breath. She was had and she knew it. “Doctor, just do it.”

“That’s not askin’,” said the Doctor, “that’s tellin’.”

“Well, it’s all you’re gettin’.”

“Then this is all you’re gettin’.” 

The Doctor took the lobe of Yaz’s ear into her mouth and flicked her tongue across it, grinding against her and crooning when her cock slid across the seam of her jeans. She wanted Yaz to know that she could do this all day, all night; she could do this forever. There was no outlasting a Time Lord. 

This dawned on Yaz very quickly. 

Truth be told, the Doctor was caught completely off guard when, following an exasperated grunt, Yaz grabbed one of the Doctor’s hands, shoved it inside her trousers, and began to ride her fingers. 

Yaz moaned and the Doctor gawked. She forgot how to be smug and she forgot to be in control; the feel of Yaz’s slick against her fingers, and the sight of her holding the Doctor’s hand while she used it to fuck herself, short circuited her brains for several long moments. 

Once again, the Doctor was reminded what a woman she had. What a spectacular woman. 

And filthy as hell.

“Doctor,” Yaz urged. “Please.”

Collecting herself at once, the Doctor flexed her fingers and shook Yaz’s off her. Making sure to keep Yaz in place with a firm hand covering her breast, she slid two fingers into the damp of her, gathered up her arousal, and spread it through her folds with a few figure-eight motions.

Her clit was already throbbing when she found it.

To begin with, the Doctor merely toyed with it. She danced the pad of her finger across it as though she were absently flicking a switch, relishing in the agitation that burgeoned across Yaz’s features as she continuously failed to pick up the slack. 

Whenever Yaz attempted to ride the Doctor’s fingers again, the Doctor pulled them away. 

This went on for a lot longer than was necessary.

After another failed attempt at grinding against the Doctor’s fingers, Yaz made a noise a lot like a whimper, and the Doctor thought, _finally._ She had to hand it to her, it took a lot to break her. Fortunately, the Doctor was extraordinarily patient. 

“It’s all right, Yaz,” she whispered. “You know what to do to help yourself.”

“I’m gonna kill you.”

“Well, I don’t see how that’s gonna solve your problem.” The Doctor swiped her fingers across Yaz’s clit—rubbed it just enough to torment her—and then deprived her of friction once more. 

Yaz banged the side of her fist against the fridge and something crashed from within it. “Fine! _Fine._ Fuck, Doctor, I _need_ you. Okay?” Yaz screwed her eyes shut and heaved a sigh. “I need you. I need you to touch me. I need you to make me come. Please, I’m beggin’ you. Before I lose my bloody mind.”

The Doctor’s golden eyes luminesced with victory. 

“Now, was that really so difficult?” she purred.

A no-doubt bitter riposte met its early grave halfway up Yaz’s throat when the Doctor curled an arm gently around her neck and launched a directed attack against her swollen clit. 

Crying out with relief, Yaz clutched at the Doctor’s toned tricep, slumped against her, and let her head fall back onto her shoulder. The Doctor kicked Yaz’s feet further apart and panted hotly against her dark cheek; she had more than enough strength to hold her up while she fucked her, but pleasuring Yaz always made her lose her breath just a touch. 

With a haggard moan, Yaz reached blindly for the Doctor’s hair and tugged. It was a button she was clever to press, for the moment the Doctor’s scalp began to smart, she intensified the effort between Yaz’s thighs. 

“Doctor,” gasped Yaz.

“You feel amazin’,” grunted the Doctor. “Gods, I can’t wait to be inside you.”

Apparently, that was the right thing to say, because Yaz whined quietly and arched deeper into the Doctor’s touch. So the Doctor carried on in that vein.

“I’m gonna screw you right here on the kitchen counter,” she vowed. “Screw you so hard I’m gonna have to carry you to bed, how’s that sound? And maybe then I’ll screw you again. I’ve been wantin’ you all day, Yaz. All bloody day. No more teasin’. You’re mine now. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” blurted Yaz between quick, shallow breaths. “I’m yours, babe. All yours. Fuck.”

Yaz’s limbs were shaking and the fingers in the Doctor’s hair tightened. She was close. Luckily for Yaz, the Doctor wasn’t in the mood to pay her back for her earlier stunt against the island. No, she was going to make Yaz come and she was going to enjoy it.

But Yaz wasn’t to know that.

“Please don’t stop,” she pleaded. “Doctor, I’m so close. Please.”

“You really think you deserve it?” The Doctor tensed the arm around Yaz’s throat. “I’m not sure you do.”

“ _Please_ ,” Yaz begged again, rasping against the muscles in the Doctor’s forearm. She jerked her hips and chased the Doctor’s fast fingers. “Tell me what to do—I’ll do it.”

The Doctor grinned. “What you can do,” she began, reaching for one of Yaz’s hands, spitting on it, and wrapping it around her cock, “is finish what you started.”

“But—what?”

“Don’t worry. Instant recovery,” guaranteed the Doctor. “I’ll still be able to screw you speechless after. Or don’t you want me to let you come?”

No sooner had the Doctor started to slow her strokes than Yaz’s awkward hold on her shaft tightened. The Doctor smirked against her cheek and resumed the brutal pace of her fingers just as Yaz began to pull her off with a hand behind her back.

They carried on like that. The Doctor fingered Yaz, swift and skilful. Yaz wanked the Doctor off, tight and tenacious. Their cheeks were stuck together. Their breathing became jagged. Hips, legs, and spines spasmed and twitched. They stumbled into the fridge and the Doctor started to ride the tunnel of Yaz’s fingers when the new angle made it tricky for her. 

“I always get what I want in the end, Yaz,” the Doctor puffed, already fast approaching her climax, “and I’m always gonna want you. You hear me? Always.”

Yaz came then. 

She squeezed the Doctor’s cock and moaned, digging her nails into the arm coiled around her throat and surging her pelvis forward. 

The Doctor divided her efforts—half, she dedicated to riding Yaz through her loud orgasm until every last aftershock had passed; with the other half, she concentrated on fucking into Yaz’s palm and falling face first into her own climax. 

With a gravelly groan, the Doctor slumped against Yaz’s body and came all over her hand and the back of her jacket. Yaz had just about enough sense, amidst the dissipating fog of her own bliss, to milk the Doctor’s cock for everything it had to give with several long, clenched strokes. She spared a look down just in time to see a fountain of come coating Yaz’s fingers and dripping down her wrist. 

The Doctor was drooling against the lapel of Yaz’s jacket by the time she was finished. 

They took a moment to come down. 

Eventually, the Doctor peeled far enough away from Yaz that she could turn around and face her. They both regarded her sticky hand. The Doctor’s tongue darted across her lower lip. 

“You okay?” she asked, still a little breathless. “Need a break? We can—“

Yaz took two of her come-stained fingers into her mouth and sucked them clean. Just like that, the Doctor lost her voice. 

“Screw me speechless, that’s what you said,” Yaz reminded her, kicking off her boots and then walking the Doctor backwards towards the kitchen counter. “Strong words. Sure you’re gonna be able to live up to that?”

“Don’t I always?” asked the Doctor, jumping only slightly when her back hit the side.

“Now and again.” Yaz brushed the hair out of the Doctor’s face, grazed her fingers down her jaw, and then clamped it tight and kissed her. 

She tasted like vanilla. 

If the Doctor had been in danger of turning soft, the brutishness of Yaz’s kiss put that right in an instant. Her fingertips dug hard enough into her face to bruise—or at least leave behind a full set of crescented indents—and she jammed her tongue into the Doctor’s mouth as if to make absolutely certain that all she could taste was her own come and Yaz’s fire. 

But fire spreads, and the Doctor was doused in fuel. 

Set ablaze by Yaz’s passion, the Doctor picked her up with an easy strength Yaz always forgot she possessed and set her down on the counter without breaking the kiss. 

Yaz shucked off her jacket and slung it to one side, and then the Doctor tore her shirt off for her. Their mouths slammed together again. 

If Yaz’s lips weren’t tender for a week afterwards, she wasn’t doing it right. 

Abandoning temperance, the Doctor bit Yaz’s lip, her chin, her neck. She attached herself to her jugular like a wild animal and mauled her with her tongue and teeth. Inhaling sharply, Yaz wrenched the Doctor closer by her hips just to slide her hands across the curve of her backside. 

“Too many clothes,” growled the Doctor. 

She seized Yaz’s hands and wrapped them around the pipe above her head so that she’d have something to hold onto when she dragged her jeans down her legs, exhibiting an unsurprising dearth of patience. The moment she’d untangled them from around her ankles, they joined Yaz’s jacket somewhere on the tiled floor and the Doctor took her rightful place between her legs again. 

The Doctor knew nothing but urgency and appetite when she tore apart the damp, flimsy material of Yaz’s underwear rather than waste another second. 

She only paused long enough to look Yaz in the eye and ask, “Ready?”

Yaz wrapped her legs around the Doctor’s back. “Ready.”

It was shockingly easy for the Doctor to push inside Yaz. She was still so slick, so smooth, so hungry for more. Yaz cursed and gripped the Doctor by her shoulders, but her cock hardly met any resistance until the last couple of inches, at which point she eased herself in without rushing. 

When she was sheathed to the hilt, the Doctor let go of a deep, uneven breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding and admired the join of their bodies. 

“Big’un, this one,” remarked the Doctor. “And look how easily it went in. Like it was made for you.”

“Wasn’t it?”

The Doctor’s lips curled devilishly. “Guess we’re about to find out.”

Without further adieu, the Doctor pulled most of the way out and then propelled her cock right back into the furthest reaches of Yaz. Yaz failed to suppress a high-pitched moan. 

The Doctor hit the ground running, repeatedly driving hard and deep into Yaz’s clenching cunt. She gripped her ponytail and pulled her head back, fastening her mouth to her collarbone and painting yet another ugly mark on her skin: the perfect canvas for an artist of opportunity. 

Coinciding with every thrust of the Doctor’s hips, Yaz gasped and the Doctor growled, grunted, swore. 

“You feel like a bloody dream,” heaved the Doctor. 

Ask her any other time, the Doctor would say she didn’t believe in miracles. Ask her right now, she’d say the only miracle she knew of went by ‘Yasmin Khan’ and dropped to her knees for her every night. There was no ground so hallowed, no body so flawless; no thing so devastating; no heart so ripe for the Doctor’s taking—and cherishing. Forever. 

The fact that Yaz was still wearing a bra irrationally angered the Doctor. She unhooked it in a fraction of a second and pulled it free from Yaz’s arms. When she tossed it aside, it looped around the faucet in the sink. Neither of them noticed or cared. 

The Doctor took one of Yaz’s plump breasts into her mouth and flicked her tongue rapidly across her pebbled nipple, nicking it against her teeth each time she slammed into the gushing valley between her thighs. Slam. Bite. Cry. Groan. Sigh. Slam. 

Yaz was making so many heavenly noises; the Doctor could feel the rumble in her chest and the untameable paroxysms of her heart. 

Licking upwards from a glistening nipple, the Doctor didn’t stop until her tongue reached Yaz’s bright red mouth. She sucked on her lip and enjoyed the tight knit of her sculpted brows and the creases in her ecstasy-stricken features. 

The Doctor gripped Yaz’s hips in an effort to hold her steady and fuck her deeper. “How’s that feel, eh?”

Slam. Gasp. Grunt. Slam. Moan. 

“ _God_ ,” cried Yaz. 

Slam. Moan. Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam. 

“Not quite speechless yet,” noted the Doctor. “Have to fix that, won’t we?” 

When the Doctor slipped out of Yaz, her cock glistered with Yaz’s arousal and Yaz made an undignified sort of sound. The Doctor offered Yaz her hands, pulled her from the counter, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. 

Then she bent her over the kitchen sink. 

“This all right?” the Doctor double checked, positioning the tip of her cock at Yaz’s entrance.

Yaz nodded. “Do it.”

The Doctor didn’t need telling twice.

Holding fast to one of Yaz’s shoulders, the Doctor reintroduced her cock to the tight embrace of her wet walls in one swift motion. Stamina unfaltering, she picked up right where she left off—punishingly rapid, unfathomably deep, and mercilessly vigorous. 

She pounded Yaz so hard that one of her moans was decapitated by an especially powerful thrust, leaving Yaz’s head ducked, her mouth hanging open, and no sound escaping. 

“Speechless yet?” provoked the Doctor, gloating and triumphant. 

She bent over Yaz and held her head up by her forehead—easier for her to hear the Doctor snarl if she could do it right into her ear. Every cupboard and utensil and appliance in the kitchen rattled like old bones. Dust poured from between the tiles. Yaz held onto the faucet with both hands. 

Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam. 

_Squeal._

The faucet twisted loose of its screws in Yaz’s grasp. Peeling her hands from it, the Doctor laced her fingers through Yaz’s and pinned them flat against the counter at either side of the sink. 

“You know,” the Doctor strained to say between almighty propulsions of her pelvis, “I can go faster.”

Yaz lifted her head. She peered up at the Doctor and, sure as day, there was the face of the woman she fell for: will unbreakable, fighting spark undying, challenge accepted. 

“What’re you waitin’ for then?” she rasped. 

The Doctor laughed villainously. “Just that.”

Standing upright, the Doctor locked her fingers together in front of Yaz’s panting mouth and held onto her face to keep her from slumping or slipping any further from her. 

It was laughable, actually, how instantaneously the Doctor shifted gear. How she went from plunging into Yaz with fairly quick but incredibly deep thrusts, to ramming her cock relentlessly inside her with a sudden breakneck speed and no depth sacrificed.

The obscene slap of wet skin on wet skin might have filled the room, had Yaz’s hoarse cries not got there first. Such a discordant harmony burrowed under the Doctor’s skin and filled her blood with flame and primal lust. It tapped into something ancestral—something as ancient as it was bestial. 

Any civilised aspect of her being was forgotten; anything mannerly or moderate thrown out the door. 

Her fingers were in Yaz’s mouth. Her canines were bared. She spoke not in words of any developed language, only in growls and snarls. The Doctor might well have started spitting gravel for how guttural the sounds she made. 

She grabbed Yaz’s hips. Hard. 

Over and over and over again, the Doctor slammed Yaz’s body into her cock. Yaz was moaning so loud the Doctor thought her voice might even carry across the vacuum of space; that, lightyears and lightyears away, in a little flat in Sheffield, Yaz’s mum might lift her nose from the paper and ask if anybody else had just heard that. The notion stretched the Doctor’s lips into a feral grin. 

“D—Doctor,” panted Yaz. 

“How’s that?” the Doctor asked, voice sandpaper rough. “How do I feel?” 

“ _Fuck_.”

“Good?”

The Doctor thought she saw Yaz try to nod; hard to tell when her body was being jolted so thoroughly. 

“Need to hear you say it, Yaz.”

“Keep goin’,” gasped Yaz, fists clenched tight atop the counter. Her shoulder blades jutted from the smooth of her back like shark fins from calm seas and the Doctor couldn’t resist kissing them, even though the blunt edge of the bone stung her lips every time she ploughed into Yaz and Yaz jerked her body violently. 

Go figure, the sharks bit back.

“Oh, I love takin’ you like this,” lauded the Doctor in a fragmented moan. “Say my name, Yaz.”

“Doctor—“

Slam. 

_Doctor_. Slam. _Doctor_. Slam. _Doctor._ Slam. 

SlamSlamSlamSlamSlamSlam.

It felt like the whole TARDIS, the whole galaxy they were adrift in, was trembling with the sheer force of the Doctor’s drive. Her innate urges. Her molecular need to be absolutely inside Yaz in every sense of the word. 

“Jesus Christ,” whimpered Yaz. 

The Doctor watched the full, thick length of her cock vanish inside Yaz time after time, and it shoved her towards the precipice of euphoria. She couldn’t fight it off much longer. The drop was coming; the ground was going to be pulled out from beneath her feet any second. That was inevitable. That was okay. 

The Doctor just wanted to be holding Yaz when it happened. 

Cross-crossing her arms underneath Yaz’s chest, the Doctor squeezed Yaz’s shoulders and pushed herself just a little bit harder across the home stretch. Everything she had, she gave to Yaz right then. With her open mouth hanging from Yaz’s cheek, and her eyes half closed, the Doctor inundated Yaz with a final series of wicked fast thrusts. 

Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam.

Sweaty skin smacked together as rapid as semi-automatic gunfire. 

Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam.

The broken sink clanged and squealed. 

Slam. Slam. Slam.

A picture frame fell from the wall close by and shattered upon impact with the counter. 

Slam. Slam.

“ _Yaz…_ ”

Slam.

Constricting Yaz in her ironclad embrace, the Doctor jerked into her with a final spasm of her pelvis—and came. 

She moaned Yaz’s name while she did so. She held her body and her bones and her beautiful soul in her hands while she did so. She filled the hot compress of her with the natural (vanilla) extract of her while she did so, and it was as sweet and intoxicating as the Doctor’s all-consuming obsession with her. 

Dizzied and drunk on endorphins, the Doctor’s eyelashes fluttered against Yaz’s skin a few times before she managed to properly open her eyes. 

Her blown pupils landed on Yaz. 

Skin sheened with sweat, hair a dishevelled mess; bite marks on her throat; lips swollen and sore; dark eye makeup smudged; naked body trembling; dried come on her hands; fresh come dripping down her thighs; the rains of a bursted cloud nine dampening the fire behind her jet-dark eyes.

“Gorgeous,” murmured the Doctor. She kissed Yaz’s jaw, prompting a subdued smile to pluck at the edges of her mouth, and pushed off her. 

When the Doctor pulled out, Yaz’s breathing jumped and she pressed her nails into her palms. 

“How was that for you?” asked the Doctor after tucking herself back in. She placed a lenient hand on the small of Yaz’s back, concerned when she didn’t make a move to stand up. “Yaz? Was that too much? Did I go too far?

Yaz shook her head. 

The Doctor pursed her lips. “Look, I know I said I’d screw you speechless, but that’s provin’ very worrisome for me right now. So if you could just—“

“You also said you were gonna have to carry me back to bed,” interrupted Yaz. She sighed like she was disappointed with herself and looked over her shoulder. “I think you might have been right. My bloody legs feel like jelly, babe. If I stop leanin’ against this sink, I’m gonna go over.”

“Oh…” The Doctor rocked back. “Really?”

“And before you start, smug isn’t a good look on you.”

“Yasmin Khan.” Slipping her hands into her pockets, the Doctor grinned. “You’ve fought off Daleks, Cybermen, and the mighty Pting, but you couldn’t handle even eight inches of me.”

Yaz pinched the bridge of her nose. “Know what? I’ll just stay here. Or crawl. Doesn’t matter—I don’t need you anymore, mate. See you later.”

“Nonsense! It would be my great honour to carry you to bed, Yaz,” declared the Doctor, looping one of Yaz’s arms around her shoulders and scooping her legs up off the ground. Really, Yaz wasn’t in much of a state to protest when the Doctor set off into the glowing, amber corridors. “I’ll even run you a bath, if y’like.”

“Long as you get to be in it, yeah?” presumed Yaz.

“Well, I weren’t gonna say…”

The Doctor beamed at Yaz with childlike glee and Yaz chuckled, twirling a short lock of the Doctor’s hair between her fingers and gazing up at her with unabashed adoration. 

It made the Doctor come to an abrupt halt in the middle of the hallway

Yaz frowned. “Doctor?”

“Sorry, it’s just—I have to kiss you now.”

“You have to?”

“‘Fraid so.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause when you look at me like that, I can’t help myself.”

“Well, if there’s really no stoppin’ you…”

“There isn’t. I told you, didn’t I? What did I say?”

“You always get what you want.”

“That’s right. And I’ll always want you.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr: freefallthirteen


End file.
